


the corner booth in the back

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Protective Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 14:07:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14427024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: You serve them fries and milkshakes and the oldest, a dark brooding pretty thing who says maybe five words all night, snags the bill.When they leave, scattering as soon as they hit the door, you think you’ll never see a group that strange and pretty again.





	the corner booth in the back

**Author's Note:**

> I adore the Hale pack and I really wanted more of them being a pack--not fighting for their lives, but being teens and family together.  
> This? This is that wish fulfillment.  
> Also, it's been sitting in my docs forgotten for like, six months. So that's a thing. Oops?

You’ve worked at Harvey’s Dinner for almost eight years. Been pulling the midnight shift with the line cook Jimmi for the past year, because you’re working your way through your degree, and you need the hours, need the shitty tips, but you need the day for your classes at the community college. 

And you like it--hourly pay is better and the tips are shit, but it’s a few hours of downtime where you can study between rounds of coffee and the regulars who don’t talk much because three am isn’t the time for talk, it’s just a place to stop and sit when the dark gets too heavy. Jimmi quizzes you while you roll silverware. It works. 

Still. You’ve seen your share of weird shit. It’s Beacon Hills. 

Weird is kind of in the name. 

 

\--

 

The first time you see them, you think they aren’t together. They’re standing separate, a crowd of seven beautiful teenagers who look like they have nothing in common aside from the fact that they  _ had  _ to have just walked off a photoshoot for leather and sex. 

One of them catches your gaze--he’s tall and lanky and it hits you a second late that you know him, that you see him with the Sheriff sometimes, bullying the man into eating a salad, and babbling too fast about everything and nothing. 

He’s doing it again, now, and you watch as he moves the crowd of strangers toward the corner booth in the back, and you kinda smile. 

They look so pissed, being herded along by this scrawny kid in plaid with flailing hands and a too fast mouth. 

You serve them fries and milkshakes and the oldest, a dark brooding pretty thing who says maybe five words all night, snags the bill. 

When they leave, scattering as soon as they hit the door, you think you’ll never see a group that strange and pretty again. 

 

\--

 

You’re wrong. 

They’re back, a few days later, led by the Sheriff’s kid’s sheer determination, and brought up by broody eyebrows in the back. 

“Stiles,” the blonde girl whines. “I’m  _ tired _ .” 

“Shut up,” Stiles answers, grinning at her and tossing an arm around her shoulder. 

She makes a noise that sounds like a  _ growl _ and Eyebrows snaps, “ _ Erica.”  _

Huffily, Erica squirms away from Stiles and stalks to the corner booth, nudging the tall curly haired boy deeper into the booth as the three boys--Stiles and Eyebrows and a boy with a crooked jaw and earnest smile--slide in the other side. 

You take their order and retreat, and when you hear the growling under the shouts and laughter, you dismiss it as your imagination. 

 

\--

 

You get used to it. 

They almost always come at night, a group of them--the combination changes but it’s usually three or more, the Sheriff’s kid at the center of it. 

Always, the oldest--it takes less than half the first visit to figure out his name is Derek, a name that rolls from Stiles with amusing ease--grounds and stabilizes them, even when they come without laughter and jokes, come furious and quiet. 

Always, Stiles is the one who murmurs jokes and teases, the one who notices when Derek pays, hiding a frown in the pull on his arm. 

You learn that Erica is vicious but surprisingly sweet, giggling with Stiles and reclining against the mountain of a man who never speaks or drifts from her side, and watches with warm dark eyes. You learn that for all his smirking distance, curly haired Isaac clings the most on the nights when the jokes fall silent, shoulders shaking as he tucks himself under Stiles or Derek’s chin. 

You learn that Stiles orders milkshakes, elaborate and a pain in the ass to make, and almost always slides it to Derek, without even looking at it. 

The first two times it happens, Derek stares at it like it’s a bomb and it’s melting before Stiles snaps at him and he drinks. 

 

\--

 

The first time you see the beautiful red head and the petulant blonde boy, they’re sitting across from Stiles and Derek. 

There are bruises on his face, and you stumble a little, at that. You don’t like seeing him looking like that, exhausted and stretched thin, his pretty smile dim and darkened by violence. Derek sees you watching and his gaze is steady, knowing, careful. 

You turn away, and get Stiles some fries and a milkshake. 

The girl is all fire and defiance and a barely contained tremor of her lip. 

The boy is snarling and vulnerable and both of them are so confused, wear it like a badge, like Stiles’ bruises and you wonder what the hell this kids are getting into, that they look like this. 

You wonder and you worry. 

 

\--

 

You lean that it is not only otherworldly good looks and a fondness for leather that keeps them together--you don’t understand what it is. 

But you know it’s unassailable. 

 

\--

 

Derek, you find, is a tipper. One night, when you’re talking to Jimmi on the line about the price of books and rent and how you’re never going to make it--he leaves you five hundred dollars folded under his cup. 

He never looks at you and aside from ordering half-caf coffee for Stiles, he’s never spoken to you. 

But you can feel it, in the way he watches his friends, the way he lets Erica paint his nails and his eyes skim them, checking for…. _ something _ ….that he cares. 

And it makes you ache, to realize he cares, even this little bit, for you. 

 

\--

 

Isaac--curly haired, angel faced, haunted blue eyes--leans into Derek and it makes you wonder sometimes. Because you see it, the way Derek looks at Stiles when he knows none of the others are looking, the tiny smile that comes out when Stiles says something he finds funny. So it worries you, worries you because you don’t want to see him hurt. 

But you see him, pressing into Stiles too, the easy sweeps of Stiles’ hand over his hair, tucking him close when the others are laughing and he’s quiet and shivering. You see the way Derek will grip the nape of his neck when he snarls and snaps, biting insults at Erica, when he’s vicious and cruel to Stiles. 

You see the way the fight drains out of him and he makes a high, whining noise in his throat as he pushes his face into Derek’s throat. 

You see the way Stiles wraps an arm around Isaac’s shoulders as they stumble out, and the taller boy leans into him, almost puppy-like in the way he follows. 

 

\--

 

One Saturday morning, when you pull a double because Cindy is sick again, you see Erica. 

You almost don’t recognize her--she’s wearing worn in blue jeans and a paint splattered shirt, her hair a messy ponytail and her face make up free, so far from the leather clad sexy vixen you see preening with the boys that for a moment you  _ don’t _ recognize her. 

She’s smiling at the woman across from her, an older blonde with tired eyes. 

“But, sweetie, you should go away to college.” 

“Mom. I’m  _ happy. _ Here. I don’t want to leave.” 

She winks at you when you deliver her strawberry pancakes, and you pause, just long enough to say, “Don’t sass your mama. Anything good in this town now will still be here when you come back.” 

Her gaze is startled and assessing and her Mama points triumphantly at you. “ _ Exactly.” _

 

\--

 

Boyd is quiet. Even when he’s surrounded by the others, he’s quiet. You think only Derek is as quiet, and he does talk, snaps at Stiles, murmurs to Isaac, argues with Scott. 

But Boyd--he’s present. He’s smiles, and his eyes are bright, watching the others, a quiet happiness that fills them as he sits with them. 

You like Boyd. You like them all, but he’s strong and quiet and cares about them, hands over salt and pepper and ketchup without waiting to be asked, flags you down to refill drinks. Sometimes, he comes with only Erica, and he listens to her as she talks, long rapid streams of babble and gentle complaints. 

You bring them pie on those nights and he eats half of his before he slides it to her and she smiles, pleased and lazy, and eats it before giving him sticky kisses. 

 

\--

 

Derek comes in trailed by a man even older than him one night when the sky is dumping rain on the world, and you crane your head a little, looking for the others. 

“They--they have school,” Derek mumbles to you and you blink at him. 

“Table is free,” is all you say and he nods agreeably and leads the smiling, bemused man to the back corner. 

“She’s pretty,” he says and you flick a glance at the table as you pour Derek’s coffee. 

“Leave her alone, Peter,” Derek almost sighs. 

Peter smirks, “I thought you had your eyes on a different pretty human.” 

Derek makes a noise that is more growl than anything human and Peter laughs outright. 

“Easy there, alpha. I’m just teasing.” Something very complicated happens to his gaze. “You used to let me tease you all the time.” 

“That was before I killed you. I think we’re experiencing a setback in our relationship,” Derek says deadpan and smiles as you drop off his coffee. 

You aren’t sure what your strange table is up to, but they have an even stranger sense of humor. 

 

\--

 

A lean, sharp eyed blond man walks in and glances around before heading to the booth in the corner. It’s Friday night, closing in on midnight and the kids haven’t shown up yet, but you’re not letting one man with a scowl that could rival Derek’s take their table. 

“Sorry, sir, this section is closed.” 

He gives you a flat look. “I’m meeting someone.” 

“That’s nice. Would you like to meet them in one of those nice booths over there.” 

His flat look shifts to a scowl and you smile, wide and bright and insincere. 

You’ve been through four robberies here and one abusive ex-boyfriend and this asshole’s glare isn’t anything that will frighten you. 

The door clatters and your gaze flicks over, not at all surprised to see Stiles and Derek. 

You are just a little bit startled when Stiles nods at the man still glaring at you. “Argent. Let’s do this, I’ve gotta get home before my Dad does.” 

You blink and Derek gives you a shrug before he carefully herds Stiles to their booth, keeping himself between Argent and the boy. 

“Coffee, please? And privacy,” Derek murmurs to you, and you gape, because despite everything, despite the strange hours, the fighting, even the time Stiles dragged him in here bloody and almost unconscious--none of them have asked for that. 

Have never asked for anything but what’s on the menu. 

You nod abruptly and do your best to give them just that. 

 

\--

 

Stiles walks in with the Sheriff and you grin as you nod at the booth. Stiles is--exactly the same, when he’s with the Sheriff. He’s still flailing and sarcastic, talking fast and with too much movement.  You hide your smile and carefully position his drink out of flailing range and the Sheriff grins. 

“Fries and a shake?” you ask and Stiles points at the Sheriff before he can do more than open his mouth. 

“You be quiet!” he says, all bark and no bite, and then smiles at you, “He wants a salad. Caesar. No croutons.” 

“ _ Stiles!”  _

“Dressing on the side.” 

You smirk. “Suppose he wants the grilled chicken too?” 

“You’re the very best,” he beams and you laugh and walk away. 

It’s a long, rambly meal that’s interrupted by people approaching to chat at the Sheriff and you watch Stiles, but it never seems to bother him. He pokes at his phone, smiles and chatters when needed, and eats up his father’s attention when he can. 

You slip some croutons into the salad and Stiles looks at you like you’ve personally offended him and you wink before you walk away. 

“Did you hear back from any of your scholarship applications?” 

“No. Derek says he’ll take care of the pack, but--”

“We agreed you’d  _ try  _ to get scholarships,” the Sheriff says, his voice dipping toward annoyed. 

“I am, Dad. I’m just--you don’t have to worry if I don’t get everything covered.” 

The sheriff looks at him and you think he looks resigned, like he knows Stiles is in too deep with Derek and his band of misfit toys to ever get out. 

You wonder if he’s figured out that Stiles doesn’t  _ want  _ out. 

It’s when you’re swinging by the table to top up the Sheriff’s coffee that Stiles looks up from his phone, eyes bright and vibrating impatience. 

He sighs and nods, “Get outta here, kid.’

“Thanks, Pops,” Stiles chirps and then he’s gone and you see the smile on the Sheriff’s face, fond and helpless and you think. 

He knows. 

 

\-- 

 

You know that  your little table of oddballs and misfits get into shit. 

You’ve seen Erica stagger in, blood in her hair. You see the way Derek is constantly watching, a hypervigilance you saw in your brother when he came back from war.

You see the bruises on Isaac and Stiles. 

But that night--it’s raining and the diner is empty. You’re halfway through a quiz in Econ when the door bangs up and they pour inside. 

Derek is carrying Stiles, his head lolling over his arm. Lydia’s in all black, her long  hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her eyes terrified. Erica has blood trickling from her ears as she hauls the other girl in and Isaac is--

Isaac is on the wrong side of the counter, rifling through the drawer. “Need a knife,” he mumbles. “Clean and sharp.” 

His gaze snaps up to meet yours and you almost stumble back at the eerie gleam of his eyes. You don’t, hold your ground and say, “Jimmi, give the boy your knives.” 

Isaac snaps his teeth but brushes an apologetic hand over your shoulder. 

Derek doesn’t even stop, just carries Stiles into the bathroom, trailed by Derek with a giant first aid kit. 

They don’t emerge for a long time, but sometimes, Isaac will look back, and whine, high and distressed. 

Once there’s a sharp cry of pain. After almost an hour, Isaac storms into the dark night. Erica and Lydia wait and you wonder where Jackson is. 

He is so rarely away from Lydia. 

When they finally emerge, Stiles is walking, wobbly and his arm is bandaged. He moves with the bruised careful gait of someone protecting broken ribs--you know that pain from your ex--and you make a low, hurt noise. 

Jimmi is there, pushing bags of food and a tray of coffee into Boyd’s hands, as Lydia and Erica hover over Stiles, and Derek watches, close enough to touch, face drawn and tired. 

He looks at you and his expression goes guilty and you shake your head.

“Get him out of here.” You stare at him and Jimmi leans against you, his eyes narrow, his face fierce. 

“Take care of him,” he orders and Derek nods. 

You aren’t sure why you care about your misfits. But as you watch them lead Stiles away, you are painfully aware that you  _ do _ . 

 

\--

 

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says, and you look over. 

Stiles looks inordinately pleased to have been insulted, almost delighted by Derek’s bland expression. 

Maybe that’s the laughter in his eyes, or the fondness in his voice, becauses Derek tries to hide it, but you’ve got his number now, and you know damn well that Stiles has had it for a long time. 

“Aww, sourwolf. You say the nicest things.” 

Derek rolls his eyes and steals Stiles pickles, biting into it with relish as Stiles squawks his outrage. 

You smile and get up to get them more pickles, their friendly bickering and veiled flirting a comfortable background noise while you study. They’re talking about the trolls again, and you tune that out because you’ve decided you definitely don’t want to know. 

“Have they kissed yet?” Jimmi asks, when you go pick up Derek’s meatloaf and Stiles’ pot pie. 

“No,” you grumble and he sighs. 

Derek looks flustered when you drop off their food, the tips of his ears decidedly red and Stiles looks  _ delighted _ . 

“What? What did you hear?” he demands and you snort as you wander away to fill up the coffee on table five. 

 

\--

 

Sometimes Erica and Boyd and Isaac come in alone. They argue about movies and music and leather--seriously, these kids--and Isaac let’s Erica paint his nails and asks, “Do you ever regret it?” 

They’re strange kids, but  _ good _ kids, and you don’t know what ties them together. It’s not blood but you think it might be, too. 

You think sometimes, a lot of times, about that night they carried Stiles in here, and the way they come in sometimes, bloody and bruised and walk out whole. 

“Not ever,” Boyd says, and he doesn’t say much, but when he does talk, they all listen. 

So do you. 

 

\--

 

Derek is sitting at the counter, which is strange enough. And he’s alone, which worries you because he looks--sad. 

Surrounded by the others, you don’t always see the weight he carries, the sadness that gathers in his eyes. It takes you a moment to place it, because it’s so familiar in his gaze and it makes you ache to take care of him, to make Stiles sit next to him until the boy’s chatter chases away the shadow. 

But he sits at the counter, and he reads. 

“Spanish?” you ask, and he flushes. 

“ _ Don Quixote.”  _ A smile tugs at his lips, and he adds, “My sister hated it.” 

You pause, and then smirk. “Which was half the reason you love it, huh?” 

His smile is wide and wicked and you laugh as you turn around. You get busy for a bit, but you keep an eye on him, fill his coffee. You drop a piece of pie--chocolate chestnut--and get a bashful smile for your trouble. 

You do notice when the Sheriff comes in, the way Derek goes tense and you wonder. 

He’s all broad shoulders and scruff, glowering looks and leather. He’s every parents worst nightmare--and he hunches in on himself, liking he’s trying to make himself smaller, as the Sheriff sits on the stool next to him. 

“Bacon burger and a large fry, please,” the Sheriff orders, almost defiantly. Derek opens his mouth and gets a glare. He closes it again. 

The sheriff smiles, smugly. 

They eat in silence, and Derek closes his book, laying down far too much money--and pointedly ignoring your dirty look--when the sheriff says, casually. 

“Got a call about a Camaro loitering a few streets from my house.” 

Derek freezes. 

“And Ms. Juniper thinks we had a break in--something about a thug in black leather on my roof.” 

You freeze. 

“Noticed that Stiles’ window never can stay shut, myself. Was thinking about nailing it down,” he glances at Derek and something glitters in his gaze. “Maybe paint the windowsill--it’s looking weathered and I think it’ll look great with some mountain ash.”

You consider the fact that paint colors are actually ridiculous. Like mountains even  _ has  _ ash. 

“What do you think about that?” 

Derek’s hands flex on the counter, and then drop to his lap, a move the sheriff follows with a smirk. 

“I think Stiles being safe is important. If you think he’s not, I’ll help you fix that.” 

The sheriff finishes his burger while Derek sits silently next to him, and you wonder what the hell is happening. 

“Hale, my kid is stubborn as hell. He’s hip deep in your shit and happier than I’ve seen since Claudia died.” He pauses and makes a face, like this tastes bad. “A lot of that is you. The pack, sure. But you. So no. I don’t want you to stay away. But you can use the front door and let me threaten you. If Stiles is going to date an older man, the very least I get to do is clean my guns in front of you.” 

Derek’s eyes are huge and his face pale and he stammers, “We--I’m--Stil--we’re not  _ dating.” _

The sheriff snorts and it almost covers your own, but Derek flicks you a look of pure exasperation and you hold up your hands, backing away. 

“If you aren’t, I think you’re the only two who didn’t get the memo.” The sheriff says, standing. He pauses and says hopefully, “Does that mean you aren’t sleeping with my underage son?” 

Derek spits his coffee all over the counter and you cry, laughing. 

 

\--

 

When they stumble into the diner, you’re in the middle of taking orders for three tables, and you barely notice them. 

It takes you almost ten minutes to make it to their booth and you pause as you approach. Because Derek and Stiles are sitting on one side, and Derek has the boy pressed into the corner of the booth, and is kissing the hell outta him. Stiles has a hand on his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, grip tight, and one of them whines. 

It’s so needy you flush, because you shouldn’t be watching this, and you damn well know it. 

You spin and retreat. 

Eventually, Derek murmurs, his voice hoarse. “The pack is here.” 

Stiles whines and nips at his lips once more, and Derek loops one arm around Stiles shoulders as they all stalk in, your oddball table of misfits. Erica cackles when she sees them and Lydia smiles, as Stiles flushes and Derek looks ridiculously smug. 

“Pay up, Isaac,” she says crisply and you swallow your laugh as they crowd into the corner booth in the back.

They’re a pack of oddball misfits. Rowdy and loud and strange and yours, while they’re here. 

  
  



End file.
